Wanted: Trail-Running Coordinator - Page 2

Gibbard and Triolo atop Mount Spokane. Photo: Nick Triolo

I met The Postal Service in Spokane, Washington, for their West Coast and Midwest lineups, traveling with them for over three weeks. They played 15 shows in 11 cities, and I coordinated 15 trail outings. Ben’s focus race was the Squamish 50K, one of Canada’s most brutal mountain ultras, so I sought out the steepest routes I could find. Starting with trails in the Pacific Northwest, we headed to Southern California, where, in between sold-out performances, Ben and I climbed peaks east of San Diego, and gutted out 17 punishingly hot miles in the Santa Monica Mountains. Heading north to play at Berkeley’s Greek Theatre, we spent a day in the Marin Headlands, weaving through trails wrapped in fog and guarded by redwood brawn.

From there, the band flew to the Midwest, where I had the interesting task of locating trails in unfamiliar (and awfully flat) territory. From dodging bobcats and white-tailed deer in Kansas City’s Wyandotte Park to running repeats on a ski jump near Minneapolis, I relished in discovering such gems. The tour climaxed in Chicago, where The Postal Service headlined Lollapalooza and played in front of 45,000 crazed fans.

Then, suddenly, the tour was over—but our trail adventures weren’t.

Ben and I traveled up to Canada and both raced the Squamish 50K, with 8000 feet of relentless elevation gain. Ben ran the gauntlet of highs and lows to finish in just over eight hours—top 20 for his age group. We were both ecstatic with our performances, albeit less thrilled with the six stitches added to Ben’s shin, due to a hard fall early in the race while cruising down a cascade of rock and root. The race was clearly a capstone, an electric ending to a month of my life that will remain unmatched.

As I reflect on my time with The Postal Service, one memory keeps resurfacing. At the end of every show, the band would perform “Brand New Colony,” a melodic track bleeding hope and renewal. Ben would ask the crowd to sing the last three words with him:

“Everything will change.”

Every time I heard this phrase, I caught glimpses in the crowd of tear-stained faces screaming these words, fists pumping the air, couples kissing. And something came into focus. I realized that it is impossible to anticipate the future, to know what’s around the trail’s bend. Whether it be a bobcat, a new relationship or a summer dream gig, absolutely nothing is certain but life’s uncertainty.